At first glance it might seem that I am just a happy, normal girl who loves to bake and walk her dog. However, I have suffered with an eating disorder since I was 13. It was only in May 2014 when I realised that this Voice in my head was slowly but surely trying to kill me. And so began the long, hard, and painful journey which is recovery...

I want My Cocoa Stained Apron to be a special place...a place for reflection, memories, shared stories...and of course a little bit of cocoa-staining ;) Recovery might be the hardest thing you ever choose to do in this life. But it is also the bravest and best decision you will ever make.:)

Saturday 27 January 2018

The Fairytale

Beautiful. Oh, so beautiful. That is what the life Ihave led for the past eight months, has been like.

Ever since I left university, really. Ever since that day when I sat that last exam. It was upon that day when I felt the yoke of stress and pressure being lifted from my shoulders - a pressure born entirely out of my fears of failure, and not being good enough - to be replaced by a freedom like nothing I had ever felt before. A freedom so sweet, I wanted to draw and draw on it, like the bee sipping on the lily's delectable nectar. It flowed along every channel of my veins, filling me with a new vitality, a new energy that I had never felt ever before. And this marked for me the beginning of a what could only be described as a sort of fairytale.

Because what happened since that day allowed my life path to take on a sort of fairytale like quality. First off there was this freedom. I was enabled to do the things that I had been unable to do for what felt like a lifetime. I was able to relax again, to do the things I loved again, to laugh and know that my eyes were shining with true and unfeigned joy, unlike before. And then there were the things that happened; the experiences I had. There was Barcelona and the adventures that unfolded for me there. There was the summer at home afterwards, in which I indulged in the sweetness of that freedom and the knowledge that I had overcome my greatest fears in leaving to work abroad. There was going away with my best friend and knowing what it felt like to have a proper girly holiday, no strings attached. I can still feel the buzz of our excitement that first day, still hear the sound of our laughter floating gaily into the slate-grey skies above Scotland.



There was that unforgettable, surreal day when I received my exam results, and realised that I had achieved the degree which I had lost blood and sweat and tears over, for five long and grueling years. And then there was October, upon a damp and seemingly non-descript Thursday, when the rain filled the gaps between the cobbles of Trinity and the cherry blossoms seemed to droop with the weight of the water pressing down upon their leaves. It was upon that day that something happened to me. It was upon that day that a girl fell in love.



From then on the fairytale continued, unfolding and unraveling itself to uncover moments so infinitely beautiful and sublime, that they, truly truly, did not seem real; rather, they seemed totally surreal, even magical. It was just like I had stepped right into the world of my own creation - Morokia; a place where goodness and beauty still prevailed; and in which persistence and bravery, in the face of relentless struggles and suffering, would in the end be rewarded in the most unexpected and beautiful of ways. But most of all, in Morokia existed something I believed for me did not exist in my own world. That being love; for ever since I became ill all those years ago, every part of me believed that there would never come a day when I would meet the one.

Because that one did not exist, I believed. How cpuld anyone ever fall in love with a girl like me - with my history, my past, and my current and ongoing relationship with my clinging, deadly nemesis?

But that's where I was wrong.



However, following a heated discussion yesterday at home, the joy I experienced in such intensity only a few days ago has now rapidly disintegrated into tight, icy fear. Its fingers claw into my brain, scratching and writhing, alongside the words that were exchanged yesterday.

 You need to get a job, Emmy. Not just a short term thing like Lapland, or Barcelona. A real job. You know you can't stay here forever, don't you..?

It feels like...it feels like the fairytale is reaching its end. But that's the thing, of course; life was never meant to be a fairytale in the first place. I just stupidly, so stupidly allowed myself to unconsciously fall into the illusion that it could be like one. And now I feel more afraid than ever before. As afraid as I felt when I stared down the page at those dreaded essay titles. As scared as I felt when I sat in the exam hall and waited for the superintendent to give the signal to open the booklet lying before me on the desk.

I don't want to leave. I dont want this life to end. I dont want to leave behind those I love and care for. No, I don't want the fairytale to end.

But now it seems so fragile, so delicate. That any minute now it will fall and shatter spectacularly into a hundred million jagged, broken fragments.

And it shames me to write these words but to deny it would cause me more shame as I know full well that this is true.

That no, I don't want the fairytale to end. But I know that it has to. I know that somehow I need to learn to survive in a place much scarier than that of the darkened woods or the perilous mountains of the fairytale. Monsters may loom there but they're tangible and can be beaten back with a sword. But the monster in one's head is a different thing. The monster in the head is a more difficult thing to kill.

I am doing well. I am doing more well than I ever have before. But will I be able to keep up the fight when the fairytale ends?

But it is not that fact which upsets me the most; which makes me want to cry into my pillow, which makes me want to curl up in a ball and hide myself away from the world's judging, critical eyes. It is the fact that, unless I find something here, I might have to leave, properly leave, for good, this time. And, in doing so, leave behind all those who I love.💔

And suddenly the road ahead appeard so bleak and frightening...😢

Wednesday 24 January 2018

Out of the Darkness

Why.

That one word has long span rotations in my head, like a loosened dandelion clock caught in a squally autumn wind.

Why. Why do I listen...still? After everything we've been together? After all he's put me through?



Sometimes I feel so, so strong. As if I could swim through the most volatile of oceans; as if I could ascend the steepest and most treacherous of mountain paths. Recovery is very much like both of those. A sea of violent, churning waves which toss about the brave swimmer, relentlessly trying to push him or her down below that broiling, ceaselessly swaying surface. So hard to stay afloat, it seems. So much easier to just stop kicking and surrender yourself to that mercilessly cold water.

It's very much like the mountain, as well; an analogy which I return to more than any other. The summit is shrouded in cloud; mysterious, and as yet, unfathomable; just like the golden shore which awaits at the other side of the sea. You've been told that it's beautiful beyond comparison, but you still won't know for yourself until you get there. And there's the thing. The uncertainty. How do you know that they are right? Is it really quite as beautiful as it is fabled to be? What if you get there, only to be greeted by a barren, bleak waste, a waste which is no better than the place that you left behind you? Is it really worth..the effort, the fight...?

Recovery is a daily battle. A fight to stay on the right track and not stumble and fall backwards; a fight to stay upright above the water and fight the urge to cease kicking your limbs, to succumb to the delicious, easy lull which wants to pull you under.



I think, since coming home, I've developed a more heightened sensitivity to the natural world around me. As I noted before, this probably stems from spending just over a month in a landscape in which there was never really any change in exterior environment. Stately spruce trees decked in shrouds of soft white, their branches still and unmoving and devoid of all life. Silent rivers and streams, locked in crystal channels of ice. A watery sun which, for the first week I was there, made a brief and fleeting appearance amongst the lilac sky's trailing, blue-grey clouds; but which then, as December drew on, ceased to even cast a glance upon that land's frozen surface. Winter pulled tighter her icy mantle across the earth's awaiting shoulders, resulting in days which were as raw as the harshest of nights I had ever experienced; more bitter, and more cruel, than the most biting of the westerly winds that unfurl themselves from across the mountains back at home. It was beautiful, it was enchanting, in a way; but so still and silent it almost appeared sterile. It was as if everything there had been imprisoned by the winter: that here, her grip was so tight, that it was choking the land, suffocating all life, resulting in miles upon miles of pearl-white, unblemished nothingness: peerless, in the sense it was untouched; yet insidious, in the sense that it was lifeless. So different to my beloved Ireland; in which soft grasses continued to grow above brown soils; in which brave flowers and shoots could still be perceived and rushing brooks and streams continued to dash their waters towards the awaiting shore.

Perhaps, in a way, what haunted me so much about Lapland's exterior, was that to my eyes there was a close parallel between that pure white landscape; and the landscape that was that of my own mind, back in the days when I found myself so deeply ensnared in ED's clutches. The cold-fingered grip of winter which I perceived in every snow-laden tree; every pitiful sapling clawing desperately out of the ground, brought me right back to that time when ED had me held so tightly by the throat. And everything I did and said was just for him. Like the ice-locked realm of Lapland, I was lifeless: an empty shell of a girl with little fight or life left in her dull blue eyes. The days all merged into one, never changing. The same routine and procedures of behaviour, every hour of every day. The landscape never changed.

But now back, back across the dipping grey rolls of the North Sea, lies a very different landscape; the ever green, moist-soiled expanses of Ireland, that jewel of a island which shines so brightly to my adoring eyes.

So different to Lapland, for here, there is still growth. Yesterday my footsteps were stilled by what for me had always been one of the most beautiful and aesthetic sights one could ever perceive in January: the first few snowdrops, tender green shoots poking from out the ground, one and two here and there bearing forth a drooping, bell-like head, so dainty and so delicate, yet growing strong despite the chill westerly winds spiralling across the puddle-ridden bog.

As is my custom I found myself pausing to peer closer, to just take in this beauty which is so simple but yet so sublime. And then as I raised my eyes to the tree branches spread out above my head, I caught a glimpse of their newly forming buds: buds which I knew, in a few months time, would prise themselves carefully open, to reveal those tiny new leaves of the most wonderful, vibrant, fresh new green. The colour of spring and renewal. The colour that symbolised the end of the darkness and the beginning of warmth and light.

Now I'm not usually into rapping, but at that moment, I found myself singing to Macklemore's Glorious, the chorus of which just always stirs something deep inside me, and makes my very blood sing and thrum in my veins.

I feel glorious, glorious...
Got a chance to start again..
I made it through the darkness of the night..
And now I see the sunrise..

No longer am I content to just let my recovery remain locked in endless immobility; to let it stand, still and lifeless, with not a single fleeting chance of new growth.

Rather, I want it to be like the ever-changing topography of my beloved Ireland. I want to see change and new growth every day. I want to seeds take root and new stems to push themselves free from soft yielding soils. I want to see shoots sprout and buds burst open; delicate blossoms bloom to adorn the trees and scatter fragrant pink petals upon my head. And I want to run barefooted through those forests of change and let me joyful laughter echo above every tree. To let my song join that of the birds', and let my spirit soar with them on strong, beating wings above an artist's painted sky.

I want this. Oh, I want this! Have I ever felt so determined to follow the light....to emerge from out of the darkness? 💖



I know I want this....now, and not later. But like the last time, there is the hesitant, "but how? What do I do?" And now I suppose I have to make my own map to scale the mountain. I need a clear and definite idea of exactly how I am going to do this. For one thing I do not like is stumbling about in the dark with no idea of where I'm heading.

And so I made a plan. Somewhat messy and scatty, for that is what Emmy's rough work usually is. But it is there, it is real, it is of a weight and substance that goes beyond the scrawny resemblance of those letters. It is my plan of how I am going to beat ED. My map which will lead me to freedom.


And so from out of the darkness emerged the most beautiful, beautiful light. A light which seems to pulse like a beating heart; a light which burns gold with the intensity of its own vitality. A light which will shine and shine on through the night, and draw me bravely onwards, like a beacon guiding a weary sailor towards the shore. A golden shore of soft sands, caressed lovingly by white flecked waves. A shore which marks the end of one journey and the beginning of another through a land bedecked in the rich garlands of spring.


Wednesday 17 January 2018

No More Tears

And once again I drifted off topic, a tendency which I always seem to succumb to when blogging, I do apologise for that. 💗

What I really wanted to reflect upon in my last post (and ermm...well, that post before that originally, too, actually) was the factors which played a role in my transition from relapse to recovery once again. Because it's true to say that I was trapped, that I felt like I was drowning. That the world was moving on, without me, hurrying along in its usual bustling, breathless pace, one which I could not keep up with if I tried.

Better to stay where I was, enmeshed within that enormous hole that ED had dug for me. He then coaxed me into it and left me there for dead. Just like he always does, and has done in the past. Countless times of tripping and falling, tripping and falling. And I remember thinking last year, When I was back at Trinity and sitting in a lecture. The words cast upon the board glowed luminously in the sickly fluorescent light, but I could only stare at them, seeing nothing and understanding even less. What was she talking about...? American Noir Fiction, of course. Focus, Emmy, focus. But no sooner had I weakly attempted to fix my brain on a certain point, that very point seemed to collapse, to disintegrate into nothingness. Leaving me suspended again, forever floating in an endless, deathly void.

Is this really it?
Is this really all life has to offer me?

I was so exhausted of it all.




The endless sways of failed recovery, and then relapse. The rows with mam over how I'd lost weight; over how I never changed anything, despite all my claims that Iwas trying so hard to get better. All those bitter words and accusations which cut me right to to the bone. The feelings of worthlessness, utter uselessness, and above all, the guilt. Guilt over being the failure daughter, guilt over being the cause of so much discord and unhappiness.

And there was a point when I very almost gave up; gave up this long and lonely fight which I had been engaged in for so long, I could not remember what it really felt like; to be able to lay down my weapons.

But something changed that month that enabled me to turn things around. To pick up my weapons once again and grasp their handles with renewed vigour and strength. To ignite the few sparks of defieance shooting upwards in my breast, causing them to amplify into palpable, red-hot flames.

Ed, this is war..

Fly free, Emmy.
It's time for you to fly free.



Janauary/February, 2017.

It wasn't just by chance that the tiny spark was initially kindled. A few things happened, looking back at it now, which caused that flame to take light. It's fairly possible that I'm forgetting something here, but these are the reasons that stick out in my mind. And the first is the one which is very much still of relevance to me now: the fact that, at that time of the year when goals are made and potential changes are recognised, it was long, long past time for me to change and change for good. Or to let this year be the same once again, spent in ED's arms. Arms which cling and fondle and grope in all the wrong places. Arms which pinch and won't let go when you struggle to break away.

It's a deadly embrace; more so more because it is so seductive. You're seduced as well as repulsed and horrified, but because of that seduction it's so hard to pull yourself away from it. Like a reluctant lover trying weakly to withdraw from the bed. So much of you is screaming in defiance, telling you to remain where you are, to not move. It's easy and more pleasurable if you stay right here with me, Emmy.

But we all know that courting ED is a act that might bring one benefits, for a certain time, anyway. But then the marks of abuse begin to show.

For too long had I subjected myself to that abuse without fight. Right until that day in May almost four years ago. And since then I had fought back, but looking back now I know it was not with every fibre of my heart and soul and mind. I want that to be my new goal for 2018. To give my recovery every single thing I have got. 

I want to be a changed girl in 2018...

The closest I ever got to being "healthy".

And another moment of  beauty came to me, drifted timidly into my line of vision as if it were nothing of consequence. But yet despite its modesty I was transfixed, in both the eyes and the heart. Last night, following a spell of heavy rain, the temperature had dropped below freezing, meaning that the bog was like something of a frozen sponge, still soft and swampy but yet with thin sheets of ice lining the ground. And, on every quivering branch and twig of the dew-laden trees, suspended droplets of frozen rainwater; hanging like glassy tears poised on the rim of an eyelid. It was as if the trees had donned their own jewellery in order to honour the beauty of this crystal clear morning.

And, as I have been inclined to do of late, it seems, I found myself pausing to gaze upon the delicate beauty of this scene; and, in doing so, reflect upon the ways in which an indiscernible similarity could be made with my own life path. And it came to me almost instantly: No more tears, Em. It was time to let my sadness, my melancholy go. Not to force it out; or to hold back the tears if, for whatever treason, they come - as for all we know, that never works - but to actively work on it, to make a conscious effort to drive those clouds away, and work on being positive, more confident. To foster belief in myself that I am able to do this, and to let go of all the fears and anxieties that, for so long, have held me back, kept me hanging in the same place, much like the frozen raindrops on the branches.

So here's what I'm going to let go in moving forward, in this brand new year, of hope and promise and change.

Let go of the fear of eating too much, because I know, all to well, I still need to gain a bit more weight.
Let go of the fear of the stomach distension. It's normal and expected in recovery and will only get better if I don't restrict and keep on eating well.
Let go of the belief that it's "okay" that I'm still technically a bit underweight. A bit underweight is not good enough for someone who has had anorexia for as long as I have. My body is too fragile to be eternally locked in a state of even slight malnutrition. No. It's time to say goodbye to that part of me that says I have to be "skinny Emmy" for eternity. I know now what is best for my body and I am going to take active measures in order to achieve it.💕

Wednesday 10 January 2018

Sunlight through the Rain

The golden haze appearing through the falling rain seemed indistinct at first, but then, slowly but surely, became clearer, more pronounced. And then, it transcends beyond being something simply eye-catching, transforming into a thing of an extraordinary and powerful beauty, arresting the eye and beguile the quickening heart, captivating the mind with its sublimity . Every raindrop becomes illuminated, shining and glowing with all seven of the rainbow's colours; beyond, through the grey rags of the clouds, stands the sun, a disc of molten gold and glowing amber. Its ferocity is enough to chase the clouds away, sending them scurrying across the sky's infinite dancefloor, clutching their trailing skirts.

This has aways been the way in which I have perceived the first few glimmers of the sun following a heavy fall of rain. To me, such a scene is just as beautiful as the Aurora; yet in a very different kind of way; a way which it is only since arriving home I have taken a pause to consider. The Aurora derives alot of its majesty from the brilliance of those pulsating, thick ribbons of glowing colour; ribbons which are, by their very own nature, fleeting and transitory. Those glowing lights will appear, streaking across the Northern Sky; then, they will fade again. To gaze upon the lights of the Aurora is to know that one has been graced with being lucky enough to witness such a wonder.

The sunlight through the rain, on the other hand, is a natural phenemona that most of us will be much more familiar with, and which we might well take for granted as a result. This, however, was not quite the case for me, having spent four weeks in a landscape in which not a single droplet of rain fell to moisten my skin or settle in tiny beads upon my hair. There, there was only snow; pure, white snow. Not a puddle of rainwater staining the endless whiteness; not one flowing river or trickling stream snaking across the earth. Everything was as still, as peaceful, as silent as the unmarked grave locked up by the frozen fingers of winter.

But yet here I am, back home again, back to the volatile and ever-changing climate of the island which long ago became more beloved to me than any other place upon this earth. And walking the doggies yesterday endowed me with the perfect opportunity to indulge every one of my senses in the Irish winter's natural wonders. Sights and sounds which might seem utterly unextraordinary and banal to some; but which to me were every bit as aesthetic as the unblemished purity and fairytale-like picturesqueness of the ice-locked realms of Lapland. The indignant ticking of the robin redbreast, fluffing his feathers and puffing out his orange-red chest plumage; interspersed with the soft coos of the collared doves, having made their temporary roost upon the naked branches of the silvery birch trees.  And then, to see this; the sun making its majestical appearance. And then the rain-soaked bogland took on an almost fairy-like quality: every fern, tipped with tiny pearls of glowing moisture, every tree branch and every grass blade illuminated with this soft golden light.

But alongside the simple beauty of this scene, it was the sentiments that it inspired, too, that I suppose made the moment so significant for me. It was witnessing that light, so weak at first, becoming stronger. To amplify into something beautiful and powerful. Because it made me think of my own recovery: how I, back at this time last year, turned something so small and seemingly insubstantial into something vibrant and palpable. What started initially as a weak attempt of resistance against my relapse gradually evolved into what could only be described as a rebellion. A rebellion in which I would fight fire with fire, and would go forth into battle with a courageous spirit and a heart blazing in defiance.

I'm going back, now, back to beginning of 2017. And I'm recalling what happened then, and what it was that helped me nourish what was a weak and guttering candle flame into a burning, dancing light, a light which would scald Ed's clutching fingers and guide me back towards the path which ultimately will lead to my freedom.



It was around this time last year...

The Christmas festivities were over, and January had spread itself like a sodden cloth all over the land, dampening spirits and laying down heavy on people's minds. Many had overspent and overindulged over the festive season, and now consequently were feeling the squeeze. i did, too. But in a different sort of way to many. Not the squeeze in the sense with which most people would use the term.Rather, I was feeling the squeeze, of ED's twisting hands, once again. Christmas had been like all the others that I ever recalled: me holding back from really enjoying myself, taking the extra chocolate from the box, making conversation at Christmas dinner, having a Christmas brunch like everyone else. It was always, always the same.

And here I was, stuck in the muddy ruts of relapse, unable to simply find the strength to throw my hands out and cry for help, let alone make some feeble attempt to pull myself out, and stand upright once again. I had fallen off the road of recovery, back into ED's engulfing embrace. It felt just like being sucked into a swamp's murky depths. Impossible to see; equally as impossible, to breathe. Like drowning in thick, stagnant water.

But then...January came.

And, as the sun breaks through the rain cloud, probing through a crack to fill the misty sky with a soft, mellow light, so too did I suddenly force open a gap in ed's stifling walls. In my suffocating lungs I suddenly found a desire to breath again. And though my limbs were numb and my body weak, there was still something there; that tiny flicker of hope.


Perhaps this is why more than anything I am so drawn towards the sight of emerging sunlight through rainfall; am so fascinated and entranced by its beauty.

It's because it is not perfect or flawless. It's slow and gradual and takes time and patience before the beauteous end result is achieved. I guess there are those who flee from the grim rainclouds, having long since dismissed the notion that that tiny glimmer of light would be enough to banish this soaking, driving rain.

But for those who remain - who keep on going, on and on, no matter how bleak things may appear - something truly beautiful is waiting to be seen, to be experienced.


In the very same way as the journey of recovery.


I have to be patient, I have to persist, and have faith.
And one day the sun will break right through these clouds. 💗